


Still Breathing

by ister



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Betaed, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Loss of Limbs, Minor Violence, it happens to a minor character & it's non-graphic (i just wanted to mention it)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister
Summary: His new boots aren't even laced yet and he wants to get out of them, to throw everything away. The strange tags are an unfamiliar weight against his chest, and he’s half-convinced they’ll burn themselves deep into his skin, leaving nothing but the wordcowardbehind.





	Still Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, Gibson's name is Henri. ~~I think that won't change in any future fics.~~
> 
> A lot of thanks to my lovely beta [Anna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes). Without her, this would still lie around in my drafts.

When he’s in a hopeless situation, Henri thinks about the propaganda posters he’s seen on his way to university, the ones convincing him to join the French army. They led him to believe in his country and in a quick victory over les boches. He remembers one of his friends, he thinks it was Léon, making faces at them and shaking his head, disgusted, mouth pulled downwards, before mumbling something incomprehensive.

“They’ll get what they deserve,” Madeleine, his girlfriend at that time had said.

After that, the memory gets blurry, as if it’s just a dream he once had. The only thing he knows for sure is that that talk was the last time he had felt genuinely happy.

Now, there is nothing left but pain and ruin. He feels it in the wind tugging at his curls, in the salt on his lips and in his eyes, and in the sand on his hands. He doesn’t dare look at the dead soldier’s face. He can’t.

The whole situation holds a certain kind of irony. While he buries the man called Gibson and takes his identity, it somehow feels like he’s burying himself as well.

For a moment he has to stop, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a few deep breaths. With no little willpower, he convinces himself to keep going, but he’s about to cry, which probably means he’s about to give up.

His new boots aren't even laced yet and he wants to get out of them, to throw everything away. The strange tags are an unfamiliar weight against his chest, and he’s half-convinced they’ll burn themselves deep into his skin, leaving nothing but the word _coward_ behind. 

Luckily, his need to survive overcomes all else, and so he ignores his shame and goes back to work, mouth set in a hard line. For now, he pretends it’s the cold breeze stinging in his eyes and not guilt.

Since dressing up and disguising himself as a British soldier, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the poor sod. At first, he had felt as if he were the one who killed Gibson. It’s a ridiculous thought, he knows as much, but he can’t help himself.

A shiver runs down his spine and his hands won’t stop trembling - an effect of the cold, nothing more. Then a sob wrenches itself from his throat, so loudly he fears someone might have heard him, but when he looks around, no one is in sight. With solitude comes permission; try as me might, he can’t stop the tears, and it takes him far too long to settle again.

Another tremor shakes him, then he’s dropping to his knees and sobbing into his hands. He should never have left his family, and the only person able to calm him, soothing him with reassuring words and small gestures ever since he was a boy… Well, she’s too far away for that now.

“You’re too young to die,” his sister had said, “Henri, please, don’t go.”

“I have to,” he had replied, hugging her tightly.

It was probably the last time he ever saw her. He’ll never get home.

“Poutain.”

It may cost him the last of his strength and determination, but he presses his lips together and goes to work again. Losing valuable time to loathe himself will only complicate things further, and even though he dreads the nightmares to come, he tells himself that he can worry about it later.

His eyes are still burning with unshed tears when he catches someone moving at the edge of his sight. It’s a British soldier, too thin, too pale and scared, just like he is. Henri nods at him, hopes, prays to the God he doesn’t believe in anymore the other won’t come closer.

As it is, he doesn’t get what he wants, because l’anglais buttons his trousers and steps over, kneeling down beside him. Henri’s heart hammers so loud in his chest he suspects not even the roar of a plane engine would drown it.

To his surprise, l’anglais just looks at his new boots, understanding dawning on his face. Then, he shuffles closer, as if seeking shelter from the wind, and helps him work. In exchange, Henri shares his remaining water with him, but doesn’t dare to introduce himself.

They part ways quickly afterwards, and he can’t help but secretly wish the other luck, for he needs it. They all do, he corrects himself. They all deserve to leave this place.

It’s a little bit surreal, if he thinks about it. Les anglais want to go home, like his compatriots, but for that, they have to leave France’s soil.

Henri doesn’t know if he’ll be able to call this country his home ever again. For a few moments the weight of his fear crushes him and he can’t breathe, but then he straightens his back.

One scared soldier more on the beach won’t stand out, but if he appears to be downright panicked, it might rise a few questions, and conversing with others is the last thing he wants. His accent would give him away instantly and he knows he can’t hope for compassion and sympathy; everyone’s too busy worrying about themselves right now.

When he has finished tying his boots, he trails after the friendly anglais and looks around. There are soldiers lined up everywhere, but they don’t pique his interest.

What does though, is l’anglais getting shooed away and leaving the line he was trying to stand in with a disgruntled look. Despite everything, he feels a small smile tugging at his lips. It’s refreshing to see someone with so much will to live.

He shivers to think about his own methods. Gibson’s dead face appears in front of his eyes before he’s able to distract himself.

It takes him a few seconds to realise the roaring in his ears isn’t his pulse, but the propeller of an aeroplane. Panic seizes him, just like everyone else, but that’s nothing he cares about right now. He throws himself on the ground, covers his head, and hopes for the best.

Tense moments pass and he stops breathing. Then a cacophony of screams and broken sobs erupts, sand flying everywhere, a body hitting the ground near him, then everything’s over. Like the last time it had happened, he can’t do much but look up slowly.

When he spots a British soldier holding his right arm, staring at its missing part with an indescribable look, he clenches his eyes shut. A pathetic whimper escapes him and he has the urge to flee, to die.

“Non,” he chokes out and scrambles to his feet.

Turning his face away from the wounded soldier is hard - he wants to help, but he knows there’s nothing he can do. The other man’s in shock, frozen and lost.

“J’suis désolé,” he mutters, and moves on.

He looks around and tries to get an idea of where to go now. The first thing he spots are the field medics, then his gaze falls on the stretchers scattered across the beach. He doesn’t dare to hope they left a wounded soldier behind, but he hurries over nonetheless, almost tripping over his own feet. He feels like wasting too much time, glancing at every single person, but the ship he wants to be on will leave soon.

_“So everyone’s just cannon fodder to you?”_

_“You’re too compassionate,” François, one of his comrades had said once, while they talked about having to watch others die._

_“They’re still people,” had been Henri’s answer._

_“And that’s your problem. They’re just bodies now. We all are.”_

Again, guilt settles in his gut, a heavy weight pulling him down. Somehow, he can't think about the wounded as a means to an end, but that’s exactly what they are. Carrying a stretcher is one of the fastest ways to board a ship.

He searches frantically for a survivor, even though he knows his chances are grim. He spots only bodies, medics and wounded alike. He curses silently and tries to come up with a sound strategy for moving a stretcher alone. 

When he gets out of the garments that’ll just limit his movements, he catches someone arriving out of the corner of his eye. Even without checking properly, he knows it’s l’anglais from before. And as luck would have it, he has found a survivor.

In silent agreement they pick up the stretcher and start running. Henri’s sure he’s never been in such a tight situation, and the slick sand doesn’t help: he doesn’t know how he’ll able to keep upright instead of slipping and falling. He focuses on the back of l’anglais and tries to will his heart rate down, which fails spectacularly, given the situation they’re in. 

Then they hit wood, and he has to concentrate on the ramp under his feet, staggering up in time with l’anglais in front of him. The wounded soldier gets tossed around and he feels bad enough to consider slowing down, until he hears shouting and sees a man trying to stop them. 

He's sure they won't get farther than that, but l’anglais just shoulders his way through the furious crowd of Henri’s countrymen, not sparing a superfluous glance in their direction. Up ahead, he hears more yelling - English, this time - and panic rises in his throat. 

He doesn’t understand the language well enough to know what they are saying, but from what it sounds like, they plan to leave without them. There’s a tight throng of soldiers in front of them and Henri knows it’ll only get worse, but l’anglais doesn’t stop.

Again, he has to smile. If the situation wasn’t so grim and if his life didn’t depend on his cover, he would tell the man how he admires his determination.

Then it’s up onto a slender plank and rushing across it while the soldiers around them cheer them on. If there were ever a time for cursing, this would be it, but of course he can’t so he clenches his teeth and almost falls into the arms of the men waiting on the other side.

He doesn’t get a chance to catch his breath though, because l’anglais is pushing forward and pulling him along. He can’t see through the crowd, but from their pace Henri guesses that their time is running out. 

Hope is a dangerous thing, he knows as much by now, but nevertheless he can’t stop picturing himself onboard the ship. And miraculously, they make it. 

Both of them catch their breath, shoulder to shoulder. If Henri closes his eyes, he can almost feel the warmth seeping into him.

But it doesn’t last, and it seems their hurried flight was all for nothing because a young man seeks them out and tells them to leave. Henri feels like crying, but he goes up the ramp nonetheless. At least they saved the wounded man’s life, he tells himself. It didn’t get them off the beach, but it comforts him a little bit.

And when no one is looking, he sneaks off the ship and signals l’anglais to follow suit. His ally looks around before swinging a leg over the railing and stepping down as well. 

Henri extends a hand to help him and for a second l’anglais sinks against him, before he straightens his back. A small smile lights his face and suddenly, Henri can’t breathe. The moment is lost when they hear voices and l’anglais’ head shoots up, his eyes widening. He resembles a vigilant rabbit and Henri has to suppress a highly inappropriate giggle, especially because he has a nickname for him now.

Quickly, le Lapin climbs around a pile to get a closer look. The last thing Henri sees of his face, is his concentrated look, tongue peeking out slightly. Then he tries to focus on what’s said, even though he knows he won’t understand a lot.

By the shocked look le Lapin casts in his direction, it’s nothing good. Before he can think too much on it, he hears the faraway rumble of an aeroplane engine.

The painfully familiar panic settles in and before he knows it, he has pressed himself against a pile. Chances are good they won’t get hit, but he doesn’t look forward to the deafening noise ringing in his ears. Especially because the screams and shouts are the hardest to forget, haunting his dreams and sometimes his memories until he’s reduced to a shivering mess.

Le Lapin ducks his head and clenches his eyes shut, his expression a mixture of pain and fear. It’s the last thing he sees before he follows suit and tries to shut out the sounds. Neither of them received a lot of training before they were thrown into the field, he knows as much, so he clings to the pole and hopes against hope that they'll survive the blast.

When he hears missiles hitting the ship, he clenches his jaw and tries to concentrate on anything but the agonised screams or the scared yells. Then there’s the sound of bodies hitting the water and he finally looks up, sure he'll be able to help. Before he can do more than think it however, the ship groans and tips dangerously against the mole. It’s second nature to seek shelter behind thick wooden poles even if they won’t stop the ship from crushing them under its weight, but instinct is instinct. 

Instinct also tells him to reach for the first soldiers and haul them out of the water, so he does. Henri expects them to be suspicious, because his clothes and hair are dry, but they just thank him and climb onto the mole.

Le Lapin seems frozen in shock at first, but shakes it off quickly and starts to help as well, even though his hands are less than steady. He fishes out one of his compatriots, who gasps and flops like a fish as soon as there’s something solid under him.

For a while, they catch their breath, barely audible over the screech of rending metal, panicked yells, and les anglais climbing up the mole. Then, just as one of them casts Henri a suspicious glance, he drops himself into the water, and le Lapin following suit. 

They make it off the mole without a hitch, looking just as tired and sodden as everyone else. For a few fleeting moments, Henri feels as if he belongs with them - no matter where they come from, the war has made them allies. Le Lapin leaves his side then, listening carefully to what the others are saying as he walks alongside the stranger he’d helped out of the water. 

The way he sticks to his compatriot reminds Henri of a chick tailing behind its mother, and he gets the feeling that l’anglais knows something he doesn't. 

He glances down at his feet so as not to raise any suspicion, but when he realises how well his boots fit him, he almost gives himself whiplash snapping his head up again. He catches le Lapin’s searching look, and the anxious expression on his face eases a bit and before Henri knows it, he catches up with him. 

Not for the first time he wishes he could just talk to someone, au Lapin especially, and curses the language barrier. It would be so easy if not for the borders of their countries and the nationalism every single one of them was raised with. He sighs and looks at le Lapin instead. 

His hair is still wet, his clothing likewise, and he’s shivering slightly. There's a new kind of stubborn determination on his face, an expression he hasn't seen yet, mingling with something almost like hope. 

Again, he wishes he were fluent enough to at least ask what's going on. The again, he probably doesn’t have to. This time Henri doesn’t suppress his sigh, and allows himself a brief wallow in self-pity. The moment is broken when le Lapin ducks his head and coughs, drawing Henri's attention once again. He's fairly sure he doesn't imagine the small smile that goes with it.

“Hurry, will you?” the other anglais, the one le Lapin had fished out of the water, shouts. 

Henri catches his questioning look before he turns around and gestures into the direction of a few lifeboats. His heart leaps painfully in his chest at the prospect of getting away from this place. It probably means he’ll have to leave his past behind and it hurts to think about it, but he'll live. For the moment, that’s all he cares about. 

Le Lapin’s hand shoots out as if to grab his wrist, but he lets it drop and nods at him instead. Side by side, they climb into one of the boats ready to take them away from the beach. If not for the winding blowing and catching in their hair, the tense silence would be deafening.

The other anglais looks back and forth between them, as if they’re a puzzle he’d love to solve. Before Henri can get too uncomfortable, though, le Lapin puts his back to him in favour of watching the beach get smaller and smaller. Henri decides to join him, his eyes starting to water again. This time, he doesn’t blame it on the wind, because for the first time in a while, he allows himself to hope.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for now. I plan on writing a second, maybe a third chapter, but I was too impatient to wait, so I posted this as a standalone. Thanks a lot for reading my fic, I hope you enjoyed it. Kudos and comments make my day. Have a good one! :D


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